Sandra Belloni — Volume 7 eBook

(Presuming that he has not previously explained it,
the philosopher here observes that Hippogriff, the
foal of Fiery Circumstance out of Sentiment, must
be subject to strong sentimental friction before he
is capable of a flight: his appetites must fast
long in the very eye of provocation ere he shall be
eloquent. Let him, the Philosopher, repeat at
the same time that souls harmonious to Nature, of whom
there are few, do not mount this animal. Those
who have true passion are not at the mercy of Hippogriff—­otherwise
Sur-excited Sentiment. You will mark in them
constantly a reverence for the laws of their being,
and a natural obedience to common sense. They
are subject to storm, as in everything earthly, and
they need no lesson of devotion; but they never move
to an object in a madness.)

Now this is good teaching: it is indeed my Philosopher’s
object—­his purpose—­to work out
this distinction; and all I wish is that it were good
for my market. What the Philosopher means, is
to plant in the reader’s path a staring contrast
between my pet Emilia and his puppet Wilfrid.
It would be very commendable and serviceable if a
novel were what he thinks it: but all attestation
favours the critical dictum, that a novel is to give
us copious sugar and no cane. I, myself, as a
reader, consider concomitant cane an adulteration
of the qualities of sugar. My Philosopher’s
error is to deem the sugar, born of the cane, inseparable
from it. The which is naturally resented, and
away flies my book back at the heads of the librarians,
hitting me behind them a far more grievous blow.

Such is the construction of my story, however, that
to entirely deny the Philosopher the privilege he
stipulated for when with his assistance I conceived
it, would render our performance unintelligible to
that acute and honourable minority which consents
to be thwacked with aphorisms and sentences and a
fantastic delivery of the verities. While my
Play goes on, I must permit him to come forward occasionally.
We are indeed in a sort of partnership, and it is
useless for me to tell him that he is not popular
and destroys my chance.

CHAPTER LII

“Don’t blame yourself, my Wilfrid.”

Emilia spoke thus, full of pity for him, and in her
adorable, deep-fluted tones, after the effective stop
he had come to.

The ‘my Wilfrid’ made the owner of the
name quiver with satisfaction. He breathed:
“You have forgiven me?”

“That I have. And there was indeed no
blame. My voice has gone. Yes, but I do
not think it your fault.”

“It was! it is!” groaned Wilfrid.
“But, has your voice gone?” He leaned
nearer to her, drawing largely on the claim his incredulity
had to inspect her sweet features accurately.
“You speak just as—­more deliciously
than ever! I can’t think you have lost
it. Ah! forgive me! forgive me!”